


Hangman

by scenic_overkill



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Angst, But also Post Zombie AU, Falling In Love, Literary References & Allusions, M/M, Romance, Slow Burn, Soul-Searching, first
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-23
Updated: 2015-12-23
Packaged: 2018-05-08 07:38:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5489066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scenic_overkill/pseuds/scenic_overkill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Everyone forgets that Icarus also flew."</p><p>In which Castiel, found in a tree, might just be the most terrifying thing to happen to Dean since the apocalypse. </p><p>Dean x Cas. Zombie AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hangman

**Author's Note:**

> Allusions and inspiration from various literature/myth/etc; I tired to quote when appropriate. Slow burn Dean x Cas, graphic gore, and to be continued in a part two and three (likely). 
> 
> Title is from the tarot card of the same name.
> 
> Might get explicit before it's over; you've been warned.

 

 "Hell is empty, and all the devils are here."

- _The Tempest_

 

"Everyone forgets that Icarus also flew."

-"Failing and Falling", Jack Gilbert

...

Hangman

…

   

The first time Dean sees him he thinks he’s dead.

Coming up the road, the tree’s shadow is a balm on his burned cheeks, but the cold registers in his gut too. The man is above him and Dean knows that it’s impossible he’s alive. There are too few places on him not covered in blood; his dark head slumped forward on his chest in prayer, his clothes dark and red. He’s sitting several feet up, leaning against the bark doll-limp, a length of rope tied around his waist to keep him tethered to the limb.

For too long, Dean stares.

The man looks like a scarecrow, and it all reminds him of watching the nature channel with Sammy on his days off work, of how those big cats sometimes dragged their kill into the trees so other predators couldn’t get them. He stares, and he doesn’t know why he doesn’t keep going. It’s just a body. There was no shortage of those, and not all of them quiet, either.

But, the thing is, he hasn’t seen one this…fleshy...in a while. This one couldn’t have been dead long, had somehow made it for so long. There’s nothing around in this part of the county: the long stretch of road on either side of him, the heat pressing on flat fields and dusty grass. The tree’s the only thing for miles and it stands like a beacon, always marking the way for him, of how close he is to Sam and the familiar oil and rust smell of shelter.

Dean looks down at his knife and back up, slowly realizing why he hasn’t moved. He wants to cut the man down—wants to bury him. The thought sends a cold spear through his chest, makes him swallow down sudden bile and assess his mental state. Fuckin’ fuck. This was no time for sentimentality. He has supplies to return with, a wound to clean, a job to do. But the body hangs above him, a familiar shape blocking out the too hot sun, and he knows he’ll do it. Knows it like he knows the burn on his face and the road waiting, every turn tattooed under his skin.

Clenching his teeth, Dean adjusts his pack and swings himself to the nearest limb, jamming the knife into the bark to help him lift. It would be easier without it, but even with a corpse Dean isn’t fond of taking chances. Besides, he’s got enough practice that the metal is just an extension now, just a sharp claw, used and ready. The climb is easy; months of running and maneuvering have made him light and agile. He perches on the branch closest to the man, near enough to reach out and cut the rope holding him upright. Up close, Dean can see the blood on the corpse’s hands, the torn state of his once simple clothes and the purple bruising his neck. He’s watchful to avoid looking at his face.

Carefully, Dean lengthens his body, grabbing at the trunk with one hand as the other raises the knife to the rope and begins sawing. The weaving is thick, but Dean takes care of his weapons religiously and hasn’t met a fiber his blade couldn’t cut. With a jerk, he slices through it and watches the rope.

The body is still leaning on the tree.

“Goddamn it,” Dean mutters, resigning himself to grabbing an arm and pulling, shuffling so he has the equilibrium to move. The body is heavy—much more so than it looks—and Dean gives a sharp tug before it’s slumping forward, finally relenting. Just as Dean’s about to move his hand away from the drop, the body gasps.

“Fu—“

Dean doesn’t get a chance to finish.

A panicked face greets his and reaches for him just as the man falls. Hands grab his arm and shirt and, were it not for his too honed reflexes, Dean would have followed him down. Instead, he grips his knife to the branch with one hand, the man’s forearm with the other.

“Don’t,” the man rasps and Dean stills the arm that was about to put the blade through the man’s skull, almost without his knowledge. The voice is shocking, so rough it barely passes as human. But it is, that much is certain, and Dean stops fighting the man’s grip as a realization shoots through him: the turned didn’t speak. They grunt and screech near fresh meat, but they didn’t _speak_ , not even when you begged, or pled for them to remember.

The guy wasn’t dead.

“Fuck,” Dean says again, gripping the hand holding on to him, trying to lift scarecrow guy to his branch. 

“I—“ the man can’t seem to find his voice. He stares at Dean in panic and Dean feels fear seizing him as the man’s grip weakens on his shoulder. The first person he’s seen alive in _months_ and he’s about to kill him. _Jesus, Winchester._

“Hold on,” Dean grits out, using all his strength to pull. The branch isn’t the sturdiest, but it holds well enough as the man swings a leg over and clutches at the bark, breathing heavy and labored. “Fuck,” Dean repeats. His head is swimming, adrenaline and panic and excitement pulsing through him as he lets his back hit the trunk, knowing the food in his pack is probably squashed, but hopefully the medicine isn’t. Christ though, the guy had almost bit it. And what if Dean had _pushed_ instead of pulled?

He stares at the shaking figure in front of him, trying to get his bearings. “Man, what the _hell?_ You’re alive.” Because, yeah, that was the other thing: alive. Alive and not in Indiana or wherever the hell he’d last heard about a group of living camping out. A new person not in one of the settlements is something Dean hasn’t seen in eight—nine months at least.

The man barely lifts his head, his blood-dried face managing a scowl, “No…thanks…to you.” 

Shit. His voice sounds even rougher now. The guy’s a wreck: the scarecrow comparison wasn’t far off. He’s got a sick sheen on his face now, his dark hair plastered to his skull with blood and sweat, eyes fever-bright in dark sockets. His lips are cracked and dry as he heaves.

Dean startles from his staring and pulls at the bag, reaching for his bottle of water. He hands it to the guy, who looks at him for a moment before accepting. Dean watches him gulp half of it down in a surge and gasp for breath. “Should prolly go easy,” Dean says, “You don’t wanna throw it up.”

The man grunts in acknowledgment before putting his head down again—he still hasn’t stopped shaking, the low stutter of a straining ignition through his shoulders and arms. “How long have you been up here?” Dean asks after a long silence, watching him lift the bottle to his chapped lips.

The man swallows and closes his eyes, “Don’t know.” When he opens them again Dean notices their haze, bloodshot and sickly. “What day is it?”

“July 15th,” Dean says, “Thursday.”

The man looks at him, “A week then.”

“A _week_?”

He nods, slumping again and Dean reaches for a protein bar. How the guy is still alive is an absolute mystery, but it doesn’t look like he’s holding up, not at all. The man glances at the offered food and shakes his head, causing Dean to frown. His eyes flutter and Dean reaches out a panicked hand to hold him up as his body sways dangerously.

“Can’t eat,” the guy mutters, voice so low and rough it hurts Dean’s throat in sympathy, “Since they got me.”

A bitter dread settles on Dean’s tongue and it tastes familiar and earned. “What do you mean?” 

The man tilts his head, a sickly smile pulling his lips, “Bitten.”

Dean jerks away, his heart a heavy pace in his chest; of course, of course. “You…”

The man’s eyes close again, and Dean can see that he’s about to drop, but fear keeps his hands pinned to his thighs. The guy’s bitten, infected. He’s dead—falling from this tree and breaking his neck would be a preferable death to the one awaiting him. Easy too, natural to just let go, effortless.

No one’s fault. 

As if reading his mind, the man opens his eyes again, blue behind the sick sheen, looking at the ground. “Thursday,” he rasps, “that’s funny.”

It’s the last thing he says before he falls.

 

*

 

When he comes to the next time, Dean is opening a can of ravioli, reaching a spoon-full to the guy’s mouth. His eyes are clouded, but he opens and takes a bite. Dean watches him chew for a long time, the guy’s face confused as he stares back at him. Dean looks away, offering another bite with the same result. The guy doesn’t seem to notice that they’re on the ground, that the sun is setting in a different location behind them.

“I caught you,” Dean says and feels something hard in his throat. He waits for the man’s anger, waits for the guilt to hit him.

“Why?”

Maybe the anger will come later. The night is trickling in slowly and Dean watches it for a beat before shrugging, lifting the spoon again. If he waits long enough, he might not have to answer at all. Cheery thought, that.

“Eat,” Dean says instead. Hesitantly, the man complies.

 

*

 

Dean is awaked by the sound of vomiting from the corner of the shed.

In the early morning light from the single window Dean can see the Scarecrow hunched over, emptying his stomach. His arms are tied behind his back, so Dean goes over and gives him water, trying to ignore the stench of sick, sour and metallic--partly blood.

The man drinks quickly before laying back and closing his eyes. “I thought this would be safer,” Dean says, not sure why he’s bothering, “It’s not too far from the tree. Thought I could maybe get some shut eye.” That’s partially a lie though; the confined space makes Dean itch, makes him want to move on, run, climb; sleep is the last thing on his mind.

“You should,” the guy gasps, body shaking, “Leave.”

Dean watches the sweat collect on his forehead, the pale rivulets of skin that show beneath the blood. He needs to save water after how much Scarecrow’s been drinking, he knows, but the urge to wash the guy’s face hits Dean hard.

He lets out a breath, “Yeah, I should.” A few minutes later, the guy’s asleep again.

Dean wonders if he himself is sick, doing this, dragging this out. It’s late afternoon and too hot in this damn box and he has Sam waiting, Bobby too. _Fight the good fight,_ Dean thinks because it’s like a song or a curse, one his dad shoved in his chest before he slammed it shut like a trunk door, left it rattling and echoing under his bones.  _Fight the good fight_ because it’s easy to die, to tell your son something that will keep him up at night while you shuffle off the mortal coil, guns and arrogance blazing. Dying is the fucking easiest thing you can do, and Dean hates that he knows that because it means he can't. He won't.

He picks at his jerky, watches the sun trail the ground until it sweeps by them both.

 

*

 

Dean sleeps sporadically over the next two days. The shed is as safe as he can find, away from everything that could host any dead, and he takes another journey to the gas station he’d passed before. Feeding this guy, even if he throws it up, is getting rid of resources. He stocks up on the things left over in the shelves—mostly odds and ends, cans of pinto beans. He’s grateful for the antibiotics he got before finding Scarecrow, used some to clean them both up the best he could.

He knows it’s useless. Can see it in the way Scarecrow’s fever rises, his jagged voice calling to names Dean doesn’t know. He should kill him now, give him the peace he was climbing the tree for in the first place. If nothing else, kill him before he turns and eats Dean as the real meal he’s been starving for.

But he can’t. Maybe he’s gotten too weak, too tired of just his own voice talking between the roads and trees. 

He returns to the shed at noon and Scarecrow is half awake, bleary gaze on him, arms limp on the floor. “Give it back.” Dean looks at him, the way the man tries to lift his arms, and realizes he means the rope.

“It was in case I didn’t come back,” Dean says, “So you wouldn’t be tied…” Even as he says it, the idea seems ridiculous. So the guy wouldn’t die tied up? Like that’s worse than this.

“Gi…give it.”

Dean shakes himself, getting the rope and coming to take Scarecrow’s wrists again. “No,” he rasps, lifting his head to stare at Dean, “Let me go.”

“It’s for my safety,” Dean grits out, “So I can stay here.”

Scarecrow’s blue eyes are fever-lit and haunted, “Freedom is a length of rope.”

Dean frowns, staring back, “I’m not letting you kill me.”

The man nods, solemn, “That’s not what I want.”

Dean sighs, taking his arms and tying them up front this time. He knows the guy is too weak to break the restraints—it’s mostly to slow him down when he turns. “I got more food,” Dean says, “You want some soup?”

Scarecrow doesn’t respond, his breathing faint, but he licks his lips twice, back and forth across flaked skin and dried blood.

“Alright,” Dean says, “Comin’ right up.”

It’s not until the next morning that he realizes that Scarecrow hasn’t thrown it back up or been sick that day. Something releases in his stomach, a steady pressure hissing out, and Dean tries not to think about it, not let it take. He’s never had faith before, and won’t start after the world's already ended.

 

*

 

“I was a teacher.”

It’s the first lucid thing the man tells him, though the words are a quiet struggle in his throat. Dean looks up from sharpening his knife, unable to keep the slight smirk off his face.

“Oh yeah? What grade?”

Scarecrow closes his eyes, “College. Adjunct.” He’s too thin in that corner, half bent and tied like an animal. It’s hard to imagine him teaching college. It’s hard to imagine college, to remember schools.

Dean doesn’t know how to respond, so he doesn’t.

 

*

 

“What’s your name?” Scarecrow asks the next time he wakes up. Dean hasn’t seen him this alert in days.

 It comes out without his permission, “Dean Winchester.”

 The man tilts his head, “Dean.” Dean nods, unable to stop staring at the guy’s contemplative face. Already he’s memorized too much of it, knows he’ll see it for a long time _after_. Scarecrow lets out a sigh, something like relief, and repeats it.

Dean doesn’t ask for his name; he's not sure he wants to know.

 

*

 

Scarecrow eats a whole can of beans the next day and Dean can’t take his eyes off him. He’s sitting up, taking mouthfuls despite his tied hands. It takes Dean a full five minutes before his brain starts working again.

“Y…you seem better.”

Scarecrow pauses, looking at the can in his hands. “Can I?” Dean asks, stepping closer and gesturing to his arm. The man looks down at it, where Dean bandaged it the first time, as if just noticing the limb. He raises his head, a startled nod escaping.

Dean is careful, his knife within reach, when he undoes the cloth on the man’s forearm. He draws in a sharp breath.

_How?_

The wound is healing, and it takes Dean several moments for his brain to catch up with his eyes. The bite’s earlier pussing and gore are gone, only purple bruising remaining, like old cross-stitches on the skin. Under Dean’s fingers there are minor indentions and peaks, a light braille of discoloration. But not like before--nothing like before.

Dean looks at Scarecrow and finds his eyes already staring at him in shock and fear, suddenly lucid. He shakes his head, lips parted, though no words come out.

“How’s it possible?” Dean’s heart is drumming harshly, his fingers clenching around the man’s wrist. “It’s not. This isn’t right.”

Scarecrow grunts, pulling his arm back to look more carefully, “Yes.”

Dean feels weak, and he sits beside him on the floor, his head rushing. “No one heals,” he says, “No one.”

When he lifts his head again, Scarecrow’s face is pale, eyes glazed and delirious again, “Maybe I’m not human.”

Dean doesn’t say anything and Scarecrow watches the wound, falls asleep cradling his hand.

 

*

 

It’s been a week, and Dean has been here too long.

It’s been a week, but Scarecrow is getting better.

Dean knows he can’t trust it, but his body doesn’t seem to comply. He’s untied Scarecrow’s hands, given him another protein bar, his heart erratic with excitement and something that tastes dry and unused in his chest—hope. Scarecrow watches him intently, chewing carefully on the bar as if it’s more than oats and peanut glue.

“Dean,” he says and Dean finds himself nodding, relaxing his pose opposite him in the small room. “Thank you,” Scarecrow looks sincere, “For saving me.”

Dean can see him trying to give a smile and finds his own mouth quirking, “Almost killed you first.”

Scarecrow looks away. His face is cleaner, like he’s been rubbing at it, and the bruising around his eyes is less intense, “I shouldn’t have fought.”

Dean frowns, “Instinct, dude. And besides, you might be a fucking miracle.” The man looks at him sharply and Dean swallows, “You, ah, could be the cure or whatever. You know, if it happens again.”

Scarecrow doesn’t respond, his eyebrows contracting into a furrow Dean has come to know as contemplation. Dean clears his throat, finishing his own bar, “I’m gonna need to make my way soon.” He glances up at Scarecrow and finds him nodding absently, eyes on his bitten arm. “You think you can walk yet? I’d like to make a bit of headway before tomorrow.”

The guy’s head snaps up so quick Dean’s sure he hears him pull a muscle. “Yo—you want me to come?”

Dean pauses, “Of course. Not much point healing you up to just leave you in the middle of nowhere.”

The man’s lips part and his stare is unsettling, making Dean shift uncomfortably, “Why are you doing this?” It’s the second time he’s asked the question.

Dean's not any better at answering, “Honestly? I don’t know. Probably gonna bite me in the ass and all, but I just…couldn’t leave you up there.” Dean knows it’s an unsatisfying reply to both of them, but fuck if he’ll tell a stranger anything before he admits it to himself. Dean’s got too many voices, too many versions of a half-truth taking shape into something he’s not ready to deal with about his fear, about loneliness, about faith.

Scarecrow continues watching him for a long moment and then seems to remember himself, slowly moving to stand up; Dean’s on his feet before he has a chance, offering a hand and pulling him the rest of the way. The man uses Dean’s shoulder to steady himself, his grip hard. 

“Thank you Dean,” his chapped lips release a breath. 

Dean nods, “You’re welcome…” Fuck, he hadn’t meant to make the avoidance of the name so obvious. But now—

The man’s mouth turns up, but he doesn’t call him out and Dean likes him a little more for it. “Castiel," he answers, "I’m Castiel.”

 

*

 

Dean learns quickly that he’d underestimated Sca—Castiel. For a half-dead guy, he can sure haul ass. They’ve only stopped twice, and Dean estimates that they only have a few more hours before reaching Main Street. 

“Man, Sam is gonna _freak_ when he sees you,” Dean says, sipping on the last water bottle and retracing his steps on the ground, “Hope you don’t mind obnoxious science nerds asking you a billion questions.”

Castiel gives him a wary look, “I don’t mind…seeing as I’m one myself.”

“What?” Dean stares, “I thought you were a teacher.”

Castiel nods, face solemn, “Of physics. Working—worked—on my Ph.D.”

Dean pauses, incredulous, “You teach _physics_? How the fuck are you even alive right now?”

Castiel gives him a look, walking ahead of him, “I don’t see how the two are related.”

Slightly abashed at his outburst, Dean follows him, shrugging, “I just mean…you don’t seem like the fighting type. Like that skill-set doesn’t really…”

Dean stops talking, seeing he’s stepped in it. Obviously, the guy survived, and it was bullshit he was brining his job into it, just because Dean tended to feel a little threatened around smart people. And Cas looked like he could take care of himself—he sure wasn’t letting being a zombie chew toy stop him from making his way through South Dakota right now.

“Sorry,” Dean sighs, “That was a dumb thing to say.”

Castiel glances at him out of the corner of his eye, “It’s alright.”

Dean gives a dry laugh, “No, I mean it. Fuck, it’s not like being a mechanic prepared me for the apocalypse, you know?”

Castiel turns to look at him fully, his mouth downturned, “I don’t think anybody could have prepared for the apocalypse, Dean.”

Man, the guy sure knows how to get to the point. Dean nods, starting back down the path, “Yeah.”

They take another rest in a small shaded grove and Dean tells Castiel about what to expect at the salvage yard. “He’s an old friend of the family,” he explains, “Kind of a loner. Tons of guns. Really saved our asses when all this started going down.”

“And he is still…”

Dean nods, “Alive, yeah. I think it’ll take a lot more than zombies to kill Bobby.” He stretches his shoulder, adjusting the pack, substantially lighter than it was a few days ago. “He and Sammy are holding down the fort right now.”

Castiel seems to consider this, “What does your brother do?”

Dean snorts, “Right now? Nags me about going on supply runs on my own.” He looks at his hands, “But, ah, he was pre-med. Before.” 

Castiel nods, “Sorry.”

Dean shrugs, “New world, right? That stuff’s not around anymore. No sense crying about it.”

Castiel doesn’t respond and Dean finds himself wanting to ask about his family. But that’s like no-no number one of the new world—no bringing up ghosts, only volunteering information. It was basic courtesy.

“So, Cas, how are you feeling?”

Dean’s trying to be casual, but a slight tension slips into his tone anyway. Castiel doesn’t seem to mind, “Decent, considering.” He swallows and his eyebrows move into that familiar position, “I don’t feel…violent. Hungry. Not for flesh.”

Dean accepts it, getting to his feet, signaling the continuation of their journey. “Just remember: you let me know if feel like you—“

“Yes,” Castiel cuts him off and his eyes are earnest when he says, “I will tell you before I have any urge to eat you.”

Dean smiles, maybe the first one in a while, and shit if that isn’t fucked up in a way. “You better. I’m not ready to get my ass handed to me by a physics nerd.”

 

*

 

“Just stay with me and don’t be too loud, just in case. Though I’ve picked off most every dead bitch on this leg of it.”

Castiel nods, looking very unlike any teacher Dean’s ever had: he’s got another of Dean’s smaller knives in his hand and a large stick at his belt. He’s down to his filthy tee shirt which, while less bloody, had clearly been worn for a while. Cas’ face is hard and swift, eyes roaming around them as they circle the small web of streets below. He looks more like a soldier than anything.

 _Never underestimate a guy living after the apocalypse_ , Dean muses. “So,” he says, leading them through the perimeter of the trees near the town, “You been out here alone? Before the attack, I mean.”

Cas doesn’t respond right away, back straight and tense. After a beat he glances over at him, “No. I…no. There were others.” His eyes flicker to his healing arm, “I chose to leave.”

Dean stops, hand out to Cas’ chest, “You got something to tell me? Like, you the kinda guy who doesn’t play well with others?” And hey, he’s not trying to be a dick, but this is important for anyone he brings to the house, to Sam.

Cas looks at him, frowning, “No, at least, I don’t believe I’m…antagonistic.”

Dean snorts—he can’t help it. “Fuck, who isn’t?” he says before turning serious again, “I mean, you’re not gonna turn on me, are you? Rob, kill?”

Cas pauses, “That will not be an issue. I owe you my life, and I will do everything in my power to repay that debt.”

“Jesus,” Dean frowns, “No need for all that. I was just doing…” He can’t finish with sincerity because, what is he gonna say? His actions have been unfathomable, and it bothers Dean enough to avoid dwelling on it. “I mean,” he redirects, “If you’re able to heal from zombie bites, I’m pretty sure you would’ve lived.”

Cas shakes his head, “I would have starved first. You finding me…that’s a miracle. You helping me, that’s your choice.” His eyes are earnest, clear, “You’re a good man, Dean, and I owe you my life.” 

Dean avoids looking at him, feeling an overwhelming urge to sputter and blush, and damn if that isn’t pathetic. Who is this guy? Who even just _says_ things like that? “Well,” Dean coughs, gruff, “No need for declarations or whatever. I’m just trying to suss out if you’re dangerous.” The joke—if it is a joke—falls flat. Cas tilts his head.

“All human beings now are dangerous,” he says, though it seems more contemplative than defensive, “I understand that you are wary of my past however, and I will try to reassure you. I'm not proud of my actions.” Castiel takes a breath and Dean stops pretending to pay attention to their path, looking at him head on.

 

“My group was…satisfactory, to begin with,” Cas says at last, “We traveled together from the beginning of the outbreak, many of us were from nearby towns, we started moving south after the first winter. They…they accepted me, after I lost my sister. I was…distraught. Foolish.” Cas pauses and Dean folds his arms, the heavy feeling in his chest thumping in sympathy. “I tried to rescue people on my own, bring them back to our shelters but—but I was not successful.” A sigh escapes him, “At any rate, I can see now that I’d put everyone at risk. They disagreed with my methods. There was this church…” Cas falters.

He looks back at Dean, shakes his head, “I’m getting off track. My fellow survivors did not have my priorities and made it clear that they did not wish to take on rescue missions. I did not like their selfishness and lack of empathy with people I knew we could save. So I left.”

“And then you got bitten?” Dean says.

Cas shakes his head again, “No—I. I had a few survivors come with me. We traveled for a few months until a bad supply run and…I was the only one who made it. I’d been alone for over a month when it…”

Dean swallows, “So it was nearby? Was it a large group of dead?”

“No,” Castiel sighs, “I was careless. One snuck up on me in the forest, crawled where I was laying down, resting. It didn’t even have legs. I panicked and started running and then the fever hit and then I wasn’t sure what I was doing anymore, after a few days.”

“What crap luck,” Dean muttered, his stomach tense, “I mean—“

“Yes,” Cas nods, “I did find it terribly ill-fated. To have it end like that. Or almost end.”

“Hey man,” Dean feels like he needs to say something, “Sounds like you stood up for what you believed in. That’s…fuck that’s the best any of us got.”

Castiel’s gaze is inscrutable, ”It would have meant more if they’d survived.”

“Yeah,” Dean looks away, “Can’t say I disagree with you.” The rest of the walk is quiet; heavy shoes light on the ground.

 

*

 

They arrive at the salvage yard late afternoon the next day, having spent the night in a tree Cas seemed reluctant to leave. At Bobby’s, Dean shows Cas how to maneuver to the false opening on the side of the barbwire fence surrounding the property. The entrance is tricky, but they manage to get in with minimal scrapes, though Cas is panting a little by the time Dean’s back to mending the opening, twisting the wire shut. Dean wonders if his keeping up had been more for show than Cas had let on.

“That’s…effective protection,” Cas groans, wiping his hands.

“It better be.” Dean jumps as he hears Bobby’s voice behind them, though his smile falters slightly when he sees the shotgun aimed at their heads.

“Hey Bobby.”

“Hey boy,” Bobby says, face set in a scowl, “Who’s the yokel?”

“Bobby, this is Cas,” Dean says, taking in Cas’s wide eyes. He puts a hand on the man’s shoulder reassuringly, “Cas, Bobby.”

“Pleasure,” Bobby growls, “Who is he?”

“A friend,” Dean sighs, “Could you let up a little? It’s been a long road.”

“And whose fault is that?” Bobby says, his eyes trained on Cas, though his gun swings to his side. “Well? Speak, boy, so I know you ain’t dead.”

“Ah, hello.”

Dean wants to go inside already and he gives Bobby a look that says as much, “Jesus Bobby. Let us get something to drink before you shoot us up with holes, would ya? It’s boiling out here.”

Bobby growls, but shows his decision by turning his back on them and leading the way to the house. “Glad you made it back in one piece.”

Dean glances at Castiel and sees him eyeing Bobby’s gun wearily, clutching his bitten arm tightly, knife in hand. Dean senses his concern and nudges Cas’ shoulder, “Don’t worry. I’ll explain everything to them. It’ll be fine.”

 

*

 

“What do you mean he’s been _bitten_?”

“Like weeks ago! I found him a week after it happened and he was still alive so I fed him some—“

“You helped him? He was _bitten_!”

“Yeah, I know that, Sammy. But his fever broke and—“

“Jesus Christ, boy! I didn’t know you were stupid on top of reckless. What the hell’ve I been teaching you to shoot for? My health?”

“Guys,” Dean says, making his voice gruff, “You can check him out yourselves. But I’m telling you, Cas is not one of them. He…he _healed_.”

Bobby’s jaw clenches and Sam sucks in a breath. Both of their eyes move to Cas, who is sitting stiffly on the couch, his eyes darting between the three of them. He looks out of place on Bobby’s faded sofa, though it has more to do with his confused expression than the blood he’s covered in. Both Sam and Dean have been bloody on it plenty before.

“What do you mean _healed_?”

“His bite,” Dean growls, stalking over to Cas and lifting his arm, “Take a look for yourselves.”

Dean watches his brother and Bobby do exactly that, examining Castiel’s skin like vultures and exchanging quiet, meaningful looks before finally stepping back. No one says anything for a long time until Castiel breaks in, “You can restrain me, if you’re concerned. I’m fine with the precaution.”

Dean’s shoulders relax, a small smile quirking on his mouth, “Nah, you’re good, Cas.”

“Dean.” Dean looks at Sam whose face is battling between frustration and excitement. Dean recognizes the look: Sam wants to be mad, but he’s dying of curiosity, and it’s leaving his eyebrows twitching furiously in indecision. It would be funny if Dean allowed it to take, but he keeps his mind on his goal.

“The bitten survive three, four days tops, “ Dean says, “No exceptions.” He looks back over at Castiel, “He was sick for two weeks, Sam. And then…he wasn’t. This is nothing like we’ve seen before. He's _immune_. Do you know what that means?”

A long silence stretched between them. This time, it’s Bobby who breaks it.

“Hell,” he grunts, “I need a fucking drink.”

 

*

 

Cas is allowed to leave the room to bathe, though Bobby tells him under no uncertain terms that he can shoot a deer’s eye with one hand, a bad cough, and a hernia…after which Cas asks why he’d want to and Dean feels like he's inhaled laughing gas.

“Is he infirm?” Cas asks sympathetically before Dean manages to usher him into the bathroom and away from Bobby’s twitchy trigger finger.

“Not to put too fine a point on it,” Dean says, shoving some old clothes at him, “But you are here by that man’s grace, and he is one grumpy coot.”

Castiel frowns, taking the garments, “I am here because of you. And perhaps God.”

Dean smirks, “I rank in front of God? Awesome.” He pauses, “Wait, you religious or something?”

Cas shrugs, but Dean can see he’s uncomfortable, “I’m open to various interpretations of belief.”

“Open to…man, you are one weird dude.” Dean shakes his head, “Look, try not to drown yourself in here. Bobby’s got the old-fashioned pump system, so we got water, just not all of it hot. If you…if you feel…bad, just yell, okay?”

“Yes, Dean.” Cas doesn’t move.

“You need anything else?” Dean ventures.

Cas shakes his head, “No. This—this is sufficient. Thank you, again.”

Dean blinks before turning on his heel, closing the door behind him, relieved to step out of all that... _gratefulness_. He looks at the wall, the fading wallpaper of his sanctuary, his home for the last two years. “Sufficient,” he mutters, unsure why the word strikes him, or what the hell he’s gotten himself into, saving the only person left on earth that might make it right again.

With Cas around...maybe it's not just about surviving anymore. Maybe they can have a future--a way to rebuild. And fuck if that doesn't terrify him.

Dean runs a hand over his face, pushing off the door to find his brother; the world just became a new kind of scary.

 

...

 This is un-beta'd, unfortunately, so please let me know of corrections. -sxo


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